


Two Slow Learners

by glittering_snail



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, My First Fanfic, Queen in the North, Slow Burn, jon snow isn't king of the north, season 8 fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29251212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittering_snail/pseuds/glittering_snail
Summary: Sansa knew barely anything about her ex-husband. For the majority of their marriage, she had been numbed by the grief she felt over losing most of her family. She knew he had been gentle and kind, and he'd seemed to try to protect her as well as he could. She knew she'd almost begun to trust him.What little Sansa knew about Tyrion was vastly more than he knew about her. He'd rarely seen an emotion on her face that he could trust was genuine, and he'd never begrudged her that. He knew how strong she had to be to survive. If only they had been given more time, he thought that he could have known her true self.But winter is coming, and the fragile foundation of friendship that they built is quickly eroding as they find each other on opposite sides of a power struggle. Before Jon Snow left for Dragonstone, he'd given up his claim to a crown he had never wanted. Sansa is Queen of the North, and she doesn't trust the Dragon Queen. But if she doesn't bend the knee, then all is lost. And Tyrion cannot let Sansa perish because of a failure of her pride.
Relationships: Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 37
Kudos: 36





	1. The First Debate - Tyrion

**Tyrion**

Sansa Stark had changed much since he had last seen her, and Tyrion wasn’t sure that it was for the better. They were both sat in the library at Winterfell. He examined her over the top edge of his book, that he read from a chair tucked in an out of the way corner. She was sitting at a table in front of the fireplace. A book was spread on the table in front of her, and she read it as she embroidered something made of white fabric.

He had a sense that part of her change could be attributed to her time with her second husband. He wasn’t sure what exactly she had experienced at Ramsay Bolton’s hands. Back when Tyrion had been married to Sansa, she had already begun learning how to shield her true feelings from the world. But Tyrion had always been able to sense hints of her warmth and vulnerability. He could sense the edges of her pain. But now, all he could see was the smooth, hard layer of ice that she had built up around her. 

He was disappointed. Had she really turned into this prideful, power hungry, and stubborn ruler? How much of her behavior was what she felt was expected of her, and how much of it was how she truly wanted to act?

_Perhaps_ , Tyrion thought to himself, _my disappointment lies not in the woman that she has become, but rather_ _in the deterioration of our relationship to the point where I no longer know her._

Not that they had been so close back when they had been married. Back then, he had been full of the shame of being a lesser husband than she deserved. A lecherous drunk who was part of the family who had caused so much of her suffering. But he had changed as much as she had in their time apart. He’d given himself to a cause that he truly believed in. He had advised the dragon queen, given her vital information that she needed as she worked to make the world a better place. He had grown into someone that he was actually proud to be. But Tyrion was almost certain that Sansa still saw him as the same man she’d known back in King’s Landing. Maybe that was another cause of his disappointment.

But his bitter thoughts weren’t helping him get any closer to figuring out how to convince her to bend the knee to Daenerys. He returned his gaze to his book and considered how best to begin his conversation with her.

“Are you planning on speaking to me sometime tonight, Lord Hand?” Sansa’s voice rang out clearly through the library. 

Tyrion realized suddenly that they were alone, save the guard at the door. 

“I assumed you desired to focus on your reading, my Lady,” Tyrion replied.

“Your Grace,” Sansa quietly corrected.

“Yes…apologies your Grace. It is difficult to break old habits.”

“Mm,” Sansa hummed her acknowledgement of his apology, her head remaining bent over her needlework.

They sat in silence for several minutes as Tyrion was lost in thoughts of which strategy to use. The fire crackled in the hearth.

“Lord Hand,” Sansa said, “You have not turned the pages in your book for quite some time. If you don’t intend to read, and you have nothing you would like to discuss, then why haven’t you returned to your chambers for the night?”

Tyrion sighed and closed his book. He moved to the table she sat at and sat across from her. His back was to the fire, and its warmth combatted the nervous chill that came over him.

“Your Grace,” He started, “I was hoping you might shed some light on why you refuse to bend the knee to Queen Daenerys.”

“Why do you believe that I should, Lord Hand?”

“Well, first and foremost, it is her bloodright. As heir to the Iron Throne, she is the rightful leader of the North. Secondly -,” 

“Is she?” Sansa interrupted. “Queen Daenerys is not currently on the Iron Throne. Your sister is. Therefore, you cannot use the Iron Throne as a solid argument.”

“But when she takes the throne-.”

“When she takes the throne,” Sansa interrupted again. “She will still have no claim, as the North has already declared it’s independence from the Iron Throne. We declared our independence before we had any real notion that a Targaryen would be returning.”

“Sansa, the Targaryen’s have been ruled the North for centuries. You cannot possibly believe that she has no claim.”

“Before the Targaryen’s conquered the North, the North was ruled by my family. The Starks are direct descendants of Brandon the Builder, the founder of the Northern Kingdom. King Torrhen bent the knee, not out of a belief that the Targaryen’s would be superior leaders, but out of love for his own people and the hope that they would be spared a bloody war. The Starks remained loyal to the Targaryen line as long as they remained on the Iron Throne, but that loyalty ended once the Iron Throne passed to another family. Who are you to say that my claim to the North is any less than hers? Who are you to demand that the North help our conquerors back into a position of power?”

“Sansa, your Northern pride is clouding your judgment. You are refusing to consider the possibility that Daenerys will be a good and just leader.”

“A good and just leader who refuses to protect innocent people unless they pledge her lifelong loyalty?” Sansa finally looked up from her embroidery with a hard look on her face.

“Her men will die in the battle. She has to get something in return for her sacrifice.”

“Her men will still die battling the White Walkers if she refuses to join forces. What will she gain if the North is decimated, and a few hundred of her men are left standing?”

Tyrion realized that he had no good rebuttal to her point. He decided to switch tactics.

“Bending the knee to Daenerys will not harm your people. She is a good ruler. I have seen the way that the uses her power. I have seen the changes that she has made for the better. She has freed slaves, outlawed rape, and given hopeless people something to believe in again. She will be good for the North, if only you let her.” 

“Tyrion, you have always disliked the North. You have put little effort into learning its ways. We have no slaves here and we are not a nation of hopeless people. How can you say confidently that she will be good for the North when you barely understand it?”

With that, Sansa rose from the table and gathered her things into her hands. Her face was a mask of strength and determination. Tyrion knew that he had made very little progress. Worse still, her words had moved him. But Sansa had to bend the knee to the Dragon Queen. There was no other option. If she didn’t, if the North stood alone against the White Walkers, Sansa would be slaughtered. Tyrion felt a tinge of desperation as he tried to arrange his thoughts into some semblance of a compelling argument. He’d failed to protect her once before. No matter the state of their relationship, he couldn’t stand failing her again. 

Sansa turned back to face him briefly as she reached the door of the library.

“Goodnight, Lord Hand.”

After she left, Tyrion buried his face in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt at fanfiction, so please feel free to give me a lot of criticism. Especially if there are any social faux pas I've made that I'm unaware of. The only parts of the books I've read are the parts about Sansa and Daenerys, and I haven't read all of the books, so this story will probably not follow the books very closely. I just wanted to write better endings for my two favorite characters after the mess of the last season. Thank you for reading!


	2. A Past Self - Sansa

**Sansa**

“Arya, you can’t be serious.”

The sun was fresh in the sky, and Sansa had been watching Jon teach a group of young men how to fight in the courtyard. Arya had caught her looking and come over to stop her before she left.

“I thought Jon said that every man, woman, and child over the age of ten would learn how to fight,” Arya said.

“Well, yes but- “

“Are you not above the age of ten?”

“You and I both know that I will be with those unable to fight during the battle,” Sansa said.

“Do you really believe it’s safe to leave our most vulnerable group of people unarmed and unable to defend themselves when the majority of the army will be focused elsewhere?”

Sansa sighed, and allowed a knife made of dragonglass to be pressed into her hand. Arya took her through some of the basic motions, and Sansa tried her best not to look ridiculous.

“Your grip is wrong. If you hold it like that, it’ll slip and slice your fingers open if you try to stab someone,” Arya said, putting her hands over Sansa’s to show her the proper way.

“Shouldn’t there be a guard on this knife to stop your fingers from slipping up?” Sansa asked.

“We barely have time to make basic knives out of the dragonglass. We don’t have time to be adding anything guards to every knife.”

“Seems a stupid way to lose one’s life, distracted by an injury caused by an inferior weapon.”

“It’d be stupider to lose it because we didn’t make enough knives for everyone, because we insisted on making more complicated weapons when people could just learn how to hold their blades properly.”

For the second time that day, Sansa conceded the point to Arya. Hopefully she would be able to hold her ground better in the discussion with Queen Daenerys later that morning. She attempted to give the knife back to Arya.

“No,” Arya said. “You should start to carry it all the time.”

“I have Brienne,” Sansa said.

Arya merely looked at her for a few seconds before she walked away.

Sansa looked at the crude knife in her hands. She knew it would ruin the image she had begun to cultivate in the Northern Lords minds if she began to openly carry a weapon. An image of a proper highborn lady from a simpler time where danger wasn’t around every corner. A sign that the entire world hadn’t turned on its head, that Sansa Stark would be everything they expected a queen to be, but better. She’d need a sheath for the knife that she could wear under her dress. Maybe up near the top of her thigh, where she could access it through her pockets. She began to get the shape of it in her head as she walked to her chambers.

She opened up her desk and got out a charcoal stick and a sheet of scrap paper and began sketching out the design that she’d thought of. Once she was satisfied, she opened another drawer that contained a pile of sketches of sewing ideas and pulled out the pile. She flipped through the top of the pile. A sketch of the cloak she’d made for Jon, a sketch of the pants she’d made for Arya with a bunch of hidden pockets. As she got further down the pile, she was met with pieces of the innocent girl she used to be. There were times when Sansa hated her younger self. She hated her naivete, hated her selfishness. But underneath the hatred she felt something softer. A sense of loss. She’d have grown out of those traits, in time. A softer life than the one she’d led would still have made the silly little girl she had been mature into a strong woman. That little girl could have become anyone. She could have been happy.

Sansa’s eye fell on a handkerchief design, one of the last designs she’d made before leaving for Kings Landing. A lion with the initials J.L. woven into its mane. A soft, short laugh rose to Sansa’s throat along with pity for her past self. She thought about how back in King’s Landing she’d tried to remember the pattern she’d drawn out and change it in her head to show the letters T.L. instead. Right after Tyrion had done something that had almost made her trust him.

_\---- Years Ago, in Kings Landing ---_

_Sansa had been picking at a slice of bread. Ripping it into tiny pieces, the tiniest possible pieces, which she ate the prompting of her handmaid. Her husband had come into their chambers, and was puttering around, rearranging books, slightly adjusting decorations, and finally pouring himself a glass of wine and half raising it to his lips before putting it back down again. All the while, he looked at Sansa out of the corner of his eye. She ignored him, focusing on her plate full of shredded bread._

_“My Lady,” Tyrion finally said, “I was wondering if you might accompany me on a walk around the gardens tomorrow at dusk.”_

_“If it would please you, my Lord,” Sansa said._

_Tyrion nodded his head and sat down next to her gently._

_“In about a week’s time, it will be my nameday,” he said._

_“Congratulations my Lord.”_

_“Yes, thank you,” he seemed to search for words. “My nameday is a bit complicated, because the anniversary of my birth is also the anniversary of the loss of my mother.”_

_Sansa finally looked up at him, frustration building in her. He wanted to talk to her about the loss of mothers?_

_“I didn’t get to know my mother,” Tyrion continued. “I don’t have any memories of her. But still, I miss her. I miss her presence in my life. I feel the loss. But I can’t mourn her. My sister, you see, was 10 years old at the time. Her memories of our mother are strong. Her feelings, her grief, is stronger. And she blames me, of course. So, I can’t mourn my mother. Not publicly. Cersei would see it as an insult. So, I do it in private. A week before my nameday.”_

_Tyrion rested his hand over Sansa’s on the table, and as uncomfortable as it made her, she let him._

_“I take a walk in the garden at dusk, I think of her, and I light a candle for her before I go to bed and place it in my window. They’re tiny things, I know. But I know my mother does not begrudge me for it. I know she understands why I can’t mourn her properly.”_

_Tyrion tightened his hand over Sansa’s, and she realized that he’d shifted from talking about his own mother into talking about hers. He’d found a way to talk about the loss of her family in an abstract way, one that didn’t require her to immediately disavow them as traitors to the crown._

_Sansa cleared her throat._

_“It must be difficult for you,” Sansa said tightly._

_“Yes,” Tyrion said. “It is. So, I was hoping that you might join me in my mourning this year, that I won’t have to be alone again. It would be a great service to me.”_

_“Of course, my Lord.”_

_He’d squeezed her hand again and then left the chambers. Once she knew he was gone, she’d blinked, and a pair of tears had tracked their ways down her cheeks. And that’s all it was really. A tiny amount of space that he’d gifted her to mourn her family. A way to grieve that didn’t require she trust him not to reveal her disloyalty to his family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! Since it's the day of love, I figured I'd post a bit of a softer chapter. A hint towards the fondness the two will feel towards each other. I've also messed with their ages a bit. In my story, Cersei is ten years older than Tyrion, and had Joffrey when she was 20. This makes Tyrion 10 years older than Joffrey and Sansa, so in this story he is 29 and she is 19. The next chapter will be a little more heated, and not in a good way. Sansa is going to talk to the Queen of Dragons.


	3. The Second Debate - Tyrion

**Tyrion**

“An oath is an oath, Lady Stark.” Daenerys said. “Will you not honor the vow of your ancestors? Our two houses were allies for centuries, and those were the best centuries the kingdom has ever known. Centuries of peace and prosperity with a Targaryen sitting on the Iron Throne, and a Stark serving as warden of the North. Let us return to those happy times. Bend the knee and I will name you warden of the north, and my armies will fight with yours against the attack of the undead.”

The Great Hall was empty, save the five of them and a roaring fire in the fireplace. Daenerys sat with her back to it, and a fur blanket spread over her lap as well. Tyrion sat beside her at the table, and Jon Snow sat on her other side, though Tyrion knew that the heat of the fire was probably too much for him. Sansa sat opposite them, with Lady Brienne standing by her side. Tyrion tried to gauge Sansa’s feelings, but her face was politely blank and unreadable.

“I’m very sorry your Grace, but I cannot bend the knee to you,” Sansa said firmly.

Daenerys sat back in her chair and her face hardened almost imperceptibly. Tyrion took a large sip of his wine, his stomach tying itself into knots. 

“You understand that this is an act of treason?” Daenerys asked.

“How can it be treason if I am not your subject?” Sansa replied.

“But you are my subject. I am rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. The North is the northernmost kingdom, and therefore under my domain.”

“But what have you done to make you the rightful ruler of the North? What loyalty does the North owe you? We have been without you for quite some time. We will not bend to you simply because you demand it. You are not the first person to do so.”

“I have been working towards my throne my whole life. I have been sold like a brood mare. I’ve been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing? Faith. Not in myths and legends. In myself. I have brought dragons back from extinction. I have convinced the Dothraki to cross the sea, even though they had never crossed water before. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and I will.”

“I am sure that there are things that you have gone through that I cannot comprehend. But I have also suffered through terrors I used to think unimaginable. Suffering does not give you the right to rule. And those miracles you have performed have not been done for the North.”

“The blood in my veins gives me the right to rule,” Daenerys said simply.

“The blood in your veins means nothing.”

“Sansa.” Jon’s soft voice was a warning. Sansa ignored it.

“If the blood in my veins means nothing, what does the blood in yours mean?” Daenerys asked. “What gives the Starks the right to rule the North?”

“The blood in my veins means nothing either,” Sansa replied. “It is my family name that matters. A family that has been in the North for centuries. A family that has protected the North, fostered relationships with the people of the North. The men of the North knew my father. They know the kind of person that he would raise me to be. They know the work that I have done since returning. That is what allows me to rule the North.”

“I thought the North was supposed to have a long memory. Have they forgotten that my family name means something too?”

“The Targaryens never stayed in the North for long, Queen Daenerys. They ignored it unless it was convenient for them in some way. What exactly would you like us to remember, your Grace?”

Daenerys shifted in her chair.

“After a few years under my rule, they will learn to trust me.”

“Not if you begin like this.” Sansa smoothed out her skirt, stood up, and walked over to the window. “Not if you treat us like hostages and withhold your help unless we bow down to your rule. Do you think that the people of the North will be grateful to you? Do you think they will love you for allowing us to buy your protection? How much loyalty would you give to a sell sword? How much trust?”

Sansa looked Daenerys firmly in the eye. Daenerys met her with an equally strong gaze.

“I will not give up my claim to the North because they do not love me. I will go house by house to ask them to bend the knee if that’s what it takes to unite the North under my rule. I will show them that I will be a great ruler. I will earn their love.”

“And if they refuse, will you deal with them like you dealt with the Tarlys?”

The silence that fell over the room was deadly. Daenerys tightened her jaw and rose from her seat.

“I believe that any conversation we have today will no longer be productive,” Daenerys said. “We will resume this talk tomorrow at the same time. Jon. Walk with me.”

The look that she shot Jon was one of buried frustration. She was no doubt angry that Jon’s attempts to sway Sansa’s opinion had not born fruit. She swept out of the room, without looking back to see if he followed her. He did of course.

Tyrion was left alone in the room with Sansa and Brienne. Sansa stared out the window at the falling snow and held her goblet in her hand.

“Well that was brilliantly mismanaged,” he said.

“Oh good,” Sansa said. “I was hoping to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

She raised her wine to her lips and took a long drink. He wondered briefly if she still needed to sweeten it with honey before she drank it. 

“All you had to do was bend the knee, and your people would be safe.”

“You are too short sighted, Tyrion. Do you believe that after the white walkers are defeated, the Northern Lords will be happy to follow a foreign queen? Because they won’t. Not now. Not after they have lost so many men fighting for their freedom.”

“There will be no freedom if they are all dead,” Tyrion said.

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. When I arrived, I thought you must have learned by now, what it means to be a ruler. But now I’m beginning to think you’re just a silly little girl who is willing to risk the lives of her people because she is too proud and power hungry to bend the knee! You are going to get yourself killed.”

“Power hungry?! When have I ever desired power?”

“I seem to remember you being willing to marry my nephew, as long as it made you queen of Westeros! Disavowing your family in order to stay in my sister’s good graces. Running off and marrying a Bolton in order to get your power back.”

Sansa’s face twitched and Tyrion almost regretted saying it. Or he would have almost regretted saying it if he wasn’t so angry and nervous. He excused it to himself. He was overdoing it. Saying things he didn’t believe but might have believed if he didn’t know her better. He needed to show her how she looked right now. 

“That was for survival, and you know that,” Sansa’s voice was quiet.

“If you weren’t so attached to your power, then you wouldn’t be so loath to give it up,” he said.

“I would give it up in a second if I knew that the person I was giving it to was worthy of it. If I knew I could trust them to protect my family!”

“Well I’m here telling you she’s worthy! Jon is here telling you she’s worthy! If your power means nothing to you, bend the knee and save your people!”

“Just because the two of you are in love with her, does not mean that she will be a good ruler to the North!”

Tyrion lost his words. In love with Daenerys? He’d never considered it. Certainly, he did feel love for her. He’d seen her. She’d helped him believe in something. But to be in love with her? To be one of the many men who had fallen under her spell and gone blind to their own interests. He was certain he hadn’t.

“You can think I’m a silly little girl all you want Tyrion, I don’t care,” Sansa said. “You lost my admiration once you told me you believed that Cersei would actually send her armies north and fight for the greater good. But it’s my family who will be propping up your queen’s rule. It will be my family that will be murdered if the North decides it needs new leaders who don’t bow to foreign invaders. It is my risk, and if I want to take time to make sure there are no alternatives before taking the risk, then I will damn well do so! And if I hear one more word from you on the matter, then you can be certain that whatever path I take, you and I will never be allies.”

Sansa set her goblet down firmly on the table and yet again, left Tyrion alone in a room, looking after her speechlessly. But this time, he felt the tension slowly unwinding from his shoulders. She said she was looking for alternatives before taking the risk. That meant that if she had to, she would bend the knee. She wouldn’t kill herself with her pride. But the relief he felt was marred by the knowledge that he had destroyed any remnants of goodwill she had held towards him. But that didn’t matter, he told himself. It didn’t matter if she liked him, as long as she was alive. That was the lie he told himself anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, I've been exposed to a certain virus and now have a lot of free time to write while I'm stuck inside my apartment. We'll see if I make use of it. This story will make a shift from being less about politics and more about romance soon, I swear. I just have to push the two of them a little farther before they're ready to realize how much they need each other. Stay tuned!


	4. An agreement - Sansa

**Sansa**

Sansa kept her hands inside a warm fur muff for the rest of the day to hide their shaking. She talked to the lords about the shipment of grains. She talked to the stablemasters about the number of horses that would stay behind from battle, ready for survivors to flee from Winterfell if need be. Any task she had that she should do outside, she did. And all the while, she kept her hands knotted tight together, pulled to her chest, and hidden under the cover of soft grey fur.

_He does not know_. She thought to herself. _He cannot know. If he knew, he could not say it._

But then again, how could he not know. Jon didn’t give him any idea of what had happened? Hadn’t Jon said he’d seen Theon at Dragonstone? He hadn’t seen how broken Theon was?

He couldn’t know.

_Running off and marrying a Bolton in order to get your power back._

She refused to believe that he knew. But she still didn’t forgive him. Even if he hadn’t known, she’d known the look on his face. He’d been saying it to hurt her, been saying it to make her listen to him. He was so convinced of his own intelligence, that he could justify hurting her to himself as long as she made the decision that he thought was right.

_Running off and marrying…_

An idea sparked in her head. She examined it from every angle. Ways it could help her. Ways it could harm her. She thought of the words the Dragon Queen had said to her. She couldn’t trust Daenerys with her people. But maybe she could trust her with something else.

By the time Sansa had gotten ready for bed, the shaking in her hands had stopped for long enough to begin working on the sheath for her new knife. But when she fell asleep, the shaking came back.

\--- The Next Day ---

The next day, the discussion between Sansa and Queen Daenerys hadn’t been going for very long when it was interrupted by the arrival of Jaimie Lannister. He’d abandoned his sister when he heard that she wouldn’t be sending troops to fight the White Walkers. He’d also brought a small company of men that he knew were loyal to him. An act of treason against his queen, that would force her to behead him if he ever dared show his face in Kings Landing again.

Sansa savored the look of despondence on Tyrion’s face once he realized that he had misread his sister. Proof that he wasn’t as clever as he thought he was.

Brienne had vouched for Jaimie, so while Sansa was hesitant to trust him, she spoke up in support of him. Once the decision had been made to allow Jaimie and his men to fight with them, Daenerys was obviously not in the mood for a diplomatic negotiation. Sansa retired to the library for a bit of peace and quiet. Daenerys eventually found her there and greeted her more openly than she had previously done. They made small talk for a few minutes, until talk turned back to the important matters at hand.

“For a moment, I thought we were on the same side. Back with Jaimie Lannister,” Daenerys said.

“I trust Brienne with my life,” Sansa said. “If she vouches for him, I have to listen.”

“I wish I could place the same trust in my advisors.”

“I wish I could place the same trust in you, your Grace.”

Before the silence the followed got too long or uncomfortable, Sansa started again.

“Your Grace, I have a proposal for you,” Sansa said. “An alliance.”

“An alliance?” Daenerys scoffed. “We have an alliance.”

“A seven-year alliance. At the end of which, the lords of the North will vote on whether or not to bend the knee to your rule. Seven years for you to prove that you will be a just ruler for the North. In the meantime, you will help protect us from the White Walkers, and we will support your bid for the Iron Throne.”

“And during these seven years, you will remain Queen of the North?”

“Yes,” Sansa said simply.

The two queens sat back in their chairs, one sizing up the other. The wind wailed against the windows as Sansa waited for Daenerys to reply.

“And during this time, how do I know that you won’t be convincing the lords that I’m horrific tyrant no matter what I do?” Daenerys asked.

“Because this alliance will be secured through one of the oldest traditions known to the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa said. “It will be a marriage alliance.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrows.

“A marriage alliance?”

“To the man of your choosing. Someone whose loyalty you do not question. He will have no political power in the North, but he will have a place on my small council and he will be able to report back to you if he suspects me of bending the truth to show you in a darker light.”

“Are you sure you’re willing to do this?” Daenerys asked. “I could choose anyone for you. I could marry you back to Tyrion. Would that not bother you? I assume there is a reason that your marriage was annulled.”

Sansa felt stomach acid trying to make its way up her throat.

“Lord Tyrion and I are not well suited to each other. He was kind to me, but…” Sansa struggled to think of a diplomatic reason to object to marriage to Tyrion. A better reason than her hurt feelings. So, she settled for the simplest one, one that didn’t involve her feelings at all.

“He is a Lannister,” Sansa said. “Still, I’ve survived one marriage to him. I could survive another. However, I do ask that you ensure that the man I am to marry is a man of honor. My last husband, Ramsey Bolton, was not a good man. I killed him by feeding him alive to his own hounds. I will abide a loveless marriage, but I will not abide a cruel one.”

Daenerys’ face softened.

“I would not ask you to,” Daenerys said. “I accept your proposal. The North will have seven years of independence. And at the end of those seven years, you will be welcomed back into the Seven Kingdoms with open arms. As to the matter of your husband, it will take me some time to come to a decision. I suppose that the Northern Lords would prefer a Northerner. Ser Jorah might be suitable. I know him to be a kind man. Of course, I’d have to find a way to annul his marriage to the wife who left him. I will think on it carefully, you Grace.”

“Thank you, your Grace.” A small smile spread over Sansa’s face as she heard Daenerys acknowledge her title.

She had won. It was a temporary victory, but a victory none the less. And anything could happen in seven years. If Daenerys was the ruler that Jon believed her to be, in seven years’ time Sansa might convince her to leave the North alone. Or she might convince the Northern Lords that being a part of the Seven Kingdoms might benefit them once again. Regardless, now Sansa felt the possibility of a happy future for her country wash over her like a wave. All she had to do was be clever enough to make the most of her time in power. She settled back down into her chair with her book and her sewing.

Unbeknownst to Sansa, in the back corner of the library, hidden behind the shelves, sat a dwarf with a book open in his hands that he hadn’t turned the pages of in a long time. His breathing was shallow, and he held himself as still as possible so as not to be discovered. The look on his face was terrible. It was the look of a man who knew he had no right to be angry but was angry all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? There's a marriage proposal. Romance. 
> 
> No, but really I did say I had to push them just a little more. There's a bit of angst coming up, but within the next three chapters the pair will be touching. How they'll be touching, I won't say. But it will be at least vaguely romantic. And I'm done with the politics, I swear. I've got Sansa exactly where I want her now.


	5. A Small Fight - Tyrion

**Tyrion**

Tyrion stood at the top to the wall of Winterfell. A large flock of some kind of bird was flying overhead, their black bodies harshly contrasting with the cold blue sky. Or rather, it was less a flock of birds and more a stream. They came from the northmost part of the sky that he could see, and they disappeared behind the forest to the south, and the line of birds never seemed to end. He kept thinking _This must be the last of them_ , but then he would be wrong. Just like he’d been wrong about so much lately. He kept watching them, even with the wind stinging his cheeks and sinking into his bones. Was this regular migration, or were the birds fleeing something?

Sansa came up beside him. She was carrying a rather large basket in her arms, and Brienne was following her with a matching basket. Her cheeks were reddened by the chill in the air, and the color seemed to make her eyes an even more brilliant blue. She’d been born to live in a climate like this. She stood beside Tyrion and joined him in looking after the birds.

“Is this normal?’ Tyrion asked. “For them to be flying like this?”

“It means the weather is about to turn,” Sansa answered. “When it gets colder, they fly south; when it gets warmer, they fly north. Normal enough.”

A servant came out onto the wall and bowed before Sansa.

“Your Grace” the man said, “the last shipment of grain from Bear Island has come in. I’ll need a few men to help get it into our storage.”

“Take three of the men who are taking care of the horses, but don’t keep them long,” Sansa said without looking at him.

The man bowed again.

“Your Grace.” Then the man looked at Tyrion with a sneer on his face. “Lannister.”

Tyrion waited for the servant to leave.

“You’d think after all I’ve done; the North would see me as more than just a Lannister,” Tyrion said bitterly.

“Do you intend to renounce your claim to Casterly Rock?” Sansa asked.

“No,” he said. “Why would I renounce my claim to Casterly Rock?”

“And the money. I suppose you intend to give it all away?”

“No, I’m not giving away the money.”

“So, you want to keep the power and the money that your name gives you, but you don’t want to be seen as a Lannister?”

“I don’t want to be seen as _just_ a Lannister.”

“Well luckily you’re hand of the queen, so I doubt you will be for long.”

“Is that why you’re upset with me? Because I’m Daenerys’ hand?”

Sansa took a moment to respond.

“I’m not upset with you, Lord Tyrion,” she said. 

“Really? Because I heard you’re willing to marry any man in the world, besides me.”

“What do you want from me?” Sansa turned to face him.

“What?”

“You’re picking a fight.”

“Only a small one. Of course, that’s the only kind of fight I can pick really.”

“Don’t hide behind short jokes. The last time you picked a fight with me, it was because you wanted something. So, what is it? You want to be married to me again, is that it? You want to be Lord of Casterly Rock, Hand of the Queen, and King Consort of the North? You want a list of titles to rival your Queen’s?”

“No.”

And he didn’t, he told himself. _It’s perfectly reasonable to be upset about being the only man singled out as unmarriable. Especially when her only reason was his family name. It didn’t have to mean he actually wanted to marry her._

“So, what do you want?” Sansa asked.

“What do you want Sansa? Why are you so willing to give up your personal freedom for the freedom of your people? Why are you throwing away your chance for happiness? I just want… After everything my family has done to yours, I just want your happiness. That is all.”

“Tyrion, I’m a grown woman and Queen of the North. I’m not a child, and I’m certainly not _your_ child. I will take care of my own interests.” 

“I apologize for overstepping, your Grace,” Tyrion said.

Sansa nodded her acceptance of his apology. Or maybe she was nodding to confirm that he had overstepped. She hefted her basket up and made to leave.

“Do you know where your Queen is, Lord Tyrion?” she asked.

Tyrion accepted that he wouldn’t get to see the end of the parade of birds and turned away from them.

“I can show you to her,” he said. “I’d offer to carry your basket for you, but I fear it’s so large that it’d make it rather difficult for me to walk.”

Tyrion led Sansa inside to where Daenerys and Jon were talking together. Sansa handed over the baskets to Daenerys, and the baskets turned out to be full of knitted gloves for the Unsullied and the Dothraki. Daenerys picked one up and examined it with a soft smile. 

“They’ll have to practice fighting wearing them,” Jon said. “Gloves make your grip on a weapon slightly different.”

“It will be easier than holding one with frozen fingers,” Daenerys said. “Who made all of these?”

“Some of our elderly women have been looking for ways that they can help prepare for the battle,” Sansa said. “Now that they’ve finished these, they’ll get back to trying to make sure that everyone in Winterfell has enough warm sweaters to last the winter.”

“That’s very kind of them. Will they bring their knitting with them down into the crypts?” Daenerys asked.

“Probably.” Sansa smiled.

“It’s admirable that they will continue to try to provide for their people, even when surrounded by corpses,” Daenerys said.

Tyrion felt fear slowly start to creep through his veins. How could he have overlooked this?

“There are corpses in the crypts,” he said.

The four of them looked at him not understanding what he meant.

“Yes. They’re crypts,” Brienne said. “That is what they’re for.”

“No, I know. I mean, there are corpses in the crypts. And the White Walkers can make corpses into wights,” Tyrion clarified. “That is how it works, isn’t it?”

Sansa’s head whipped to look at Jon, whose face drained of color.

“Yes,” Jon said. “That’s how it works.”

They all struggled for what to say next.

“We have nowhere else to go,” Sansa said. “We can’t send hundreds of elderly and children on the road to another castle without protection, and we can’t spare any men to protect them.”

“Even if we could spare the men, they’d have to go slowly,” Jon said. “The Army of the Dead would catch up to them.”

“Is there anywhere else in Winterfell that’s big enough to hold all of them?” Daenerys asked. “If their children aren’t safe, the fighters won’t be able to focus. They’ll keep tricking themselves into thinking they hear their baby crying.”

“We’ve always gone to the crypts during battles, for our entire history. There is nowhere else,” Sansa said.

Tyrion thought desperately for a solution.

“Well…” he said slowly, “we could burn the bodies to prevent them being turned into wights.”

“What?” Sansa looked at him with disgust.

“If there is nowhere else to go…we’ll have to burn the bodies.”

“You want us to pull our ancestors’ bones out of their tombs and burn them?! No!”

“Is there another way to make it safe?” Tyrion asked.

“We’re not disturbing their final resting place!” Sansa came closer to yelling than Tyrion had ever heard her.

“There aren’t enough men to do it anyways,” Daenerys said. “We’re stretched thin enough as it is. Everyone who is able to fight is training to fight. Everyone else already has jobs to do. There have to be thousands of bodies down in the crypts.”

“We wouldn’t have to burn all of them,” Tyrion said. “We could find a way to wall off a portion, and only burn those in that portion.”

“And those that you burn,” Sansa spat out, “would you keep track of whose ashes were whose so that you could put them back in their proper place? Or would you let them blow away with the wind?”

“Do you think that your ancestors would rather their remains were used to attack you instead? They’re dead, Sansa. They won’t mind us moving them.”

“You’ve never believed in anything other than yourself, Tyrion. Just because your religion means nothing to you, doesn’t mean others don’t have their own faith,” Sansa turned to Jon. “We can’t let our people see us doing this. How can we expect them to trust us if they see us disrespect our ancestors like this?”

“Sansa, we don’t have a choice,” Jon said.

Sansa’s mouth tightened into a thin line.

“We still don’t have enough men to do it,” Daenerys reminded him.

“We don’t need them,” Jon said. “The Red Witch has returned to Winterfell for the battle. She can set the bodies on fire, maybe she can even do it while they’re still in their tombs. Their ashes will still be in the same resting place Sansa.”

Sansa shook her head.

“Fine,” she said. “I’m going to go visit the Godswood.”

Tyrion felt a tug on his heart as he remembered a time long ago when Sansa had told him that she only went to the Godswood to avoid people talking to her. He wondered if she’d begun praying again, or if it was another thing that life had stolen from her for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who is from a cold climate, it really frustrates me to see people with bare hands in freezing weather. I will go without a coat before I go without my gloves. That's really all I wanted to say down here. Wear your gloves folks. They make such a difference.


	6. Preparations - Sansa/Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: This chapter is not a lighthearted chapter and it contains a semi-graphic description of a corpse. If that is something you're not in the mindset to read, please skip to Tyrion's point of view, which will briefly touch on what happens during Sansa's point of view, but won't go into detail. 
> 
> P.s. Thank you for all of the lovely comments. I will respond to all of them eventually, but my boss wants me to make up for the time I missed while quarantining, so I'm a little busy at the moment.

** Sansa **

Sansa’s arms were aching, and her hands were beginning to be rubbed raw.

Jon was busy solidifying battle plans while Daenerys was out scouting on one of her dragons. All of them had agreed that no one could know what they were doing that afternoon, so it was just Sansa and Brienne lifting the heavy stone lids away from their tombs so Melisandre could place her hands upon the corpses to set them aflame. The Red Woman was silent all the while, as if she knew that her words would be even more unwelcome than her presence was. If Sansa could throw her out of Winterfell, she would. But they needed all of the help they could get. 

Sansa could hear the low sounds of Tyrion and Arya’s voices coming from farther down in the crypts. Arya had been exploring down here since she was a little girl, finding all of the collapsed branches and hidden doors. She knew the crypts better than anyone, so she and Tyrion were the ones deciding where to put everyone and figuring out how to secure it from the rest of the crypt. The two had of course picked the section that Sansa had wanted the least to do this in, but she held her tongue. Everyone was making sacrifices. She didn’t want to selfishly refuse to make any herself.

After a while, Sansa got used to what she was doing. The worst part of it was the smoke, which pooled at the ceiling like a foreboding storm cloud. The design of the crypts had been so cleverly done that there was an air current that pulled the smoke away slowly, so luckily the air never became unbreathable, but sometimes the smoke would blow into her face and burn her eyes. It also carried the scent of death with it, so Sansa could never quite forget what they were burning. She accepted it though, and she kept herself together. Before lifting the lid over her father’s bones, she’d lit a candle for him, and as Melisandre had said her enchantment, or whatever it was, Sansa had kept her eyes on the candle. She watched it flicker through the smoke, a bead of wax dripping slowly down the side. Sansa kept herself together.

And then they’d gotten to the tomb that Sansa had been dreading most of all. She lit another candle.

“My Lady, perhaps we should take a break,” Brienne said. 

Sansa shook her head and moved to one end of the lid. Brienne reluctantly took her place at the other end and together they moved the heavy stone. 

A dense and horrible stench hit Sansa as soon as the stone was lifted. This corpse was newer than all the others had been, and since it had been sealed in stone away from insects and the elements, the flesh had not yet finished decaying. The smell of it tried to claw down Sansa’s throat, pulling up at the contents of her stomach. Despite herself, Sansa doubled over as she gagged, and her eyes fell upon a swollen and disfigured face. She cried out softly and backed away as quickly as she could, not stopping until her back hit the opposite wall.

“My Lady, are you alright?” Brienne called out worriedly. She remained holding her end of the tomb lid, perhaps knowing that it was more important to get this over with as quickly as possible than it was to rush to Sansa’s side.

Sansa’s eyes were locked to the tomb that held Rickon. Baby Rickon. Sweet baby Rickon who she had secretly pretended was her own, practicing for when she would be a mother. She’d kissed his soft cheeks and pressed her forehead against his and watched as he slowly learned to talk and walk and be a person. And then she’d left him behind. The next time she’d seen his face, his body had already gone cold. But even that was better than this, than knowing what it looked like after death had truly begun to eat away at everything recognizable about him. Even the color of his skin... Sansa did her best to control her breathing and keep herself from crying.

“Sansa?” Arya knelt down in front of her. “Are you alright?”

Sansa set her jaw and nodded. Arya looked up at the tomb briefly before realizing whose it was and then sat down next to Sansa and put her arm around her shoulder. Sansa felt Tyrion looking at her but refused to look back at him, so he turned away and looked instead at Rickon’s body. He stood there for a moment, transfixed.

“Would you mind holding the other end of this up?” Brienne asked Tyrion.

Brienne had been holding the lid up valiantly, but it was beginning to be too heavy for even her. He moved to help her without a word, and after it was over, they moved on to the next tomb with Melisandre, leaving the sisters where they were seated.

Arya leaned her head on Sansa’s shoulder. After a minute, Sansa leaned her head on top of Arya’s, and so the two of them sat watching the candle that Sansa had lit until it had completely burnt out. Neither one of them shed a tear, and neither one of them spoke.

** Tyrion **

Tyrion rubbed at his shoulder as he made his way to the library, trying to massage away the tightness that had developed around his neck. There was a rather beautifully illustrated book on dire wolves that he had become fascinated by. He’d much rather have taken the book with him back to his chambers, but the book was so valuable that it was chained to its shelf, so instead he had to return each night to visit it. If it hadn’t had been so interesting, he would not have bothered tonight. He was sorely tired.

As he pushed open the door, he heard a whimper. He closed the door carefully and looked for the source of the noise. Tucked in a little reading nook, Sansa was curled up in a comfortable chair her head leaning against the armrest of the chair. She was fast asleep. On the table in front of her was the same book that Tyrion had seen her reading a few nights earlier. He glanced at it, noting that it was an account of the most recent winter. He smiled, and then he heard another whimper.

He looked back up at Sansa and noticed what he hadn’t before. Her hands were tightly clenched in the fabric of her skirt and tears were tracking their way down her face. But most concerning of all was the shaking. Her entire body seemed to shake ever so slightly.

He reached out touched her shoulder.

“Sansa. Sansa!” Tyrion said.

She woke with a sharp gasp of air, her eyes searching wildly around the room. He reached up a hand and gently guided her gaze to him.

“Sansa, it’s okay,” he said. “You’re safe.”

Sansa’s breathing gradually calmed as she looked at him, and he stroked her hair once absentmindedly before he remembered himself and pulled away. Her hands unclenched slowly and then they flew about, smoothing down her hair and her clothes, attempting to return her to the picture of a graceful noblewoman.

“Sansa, are you alright?” Tyrion asked.

“I hadn’t realized how tired I was,” Sansa said as lightly as she could. She cleared her throat. “I believe it’s time to retire to my chambers. Goodnight, Lord Hand.”

“Goodnight, your Grace.”

Tyrion watched Sansa get up to leave, her back straight and her step firm and determined. Her quiet strength was something he almost envied, but at the same time he would give a great deal to ensure that she didn’t have to be so strong. Who did she have that she could let her guard down around? She needed someone. Especially after a day as trying as today had been. He’d spent the last few hours thinking of all the ways he could have prevented Sansa from seeing her brother’s corpse. But he also kept reminding himself that she had made the choice to be down there today. She didn’t need his protection. She didn’t want it.

At the door, Sansa hesitated for a moment.

“Thank you for waking me, my Lord,” she said softly without looking back.

“Of course,” Tyrion replied.


	7. The Army is Spotted

**Sansa**

The next morning, Sansa woke when the edge of the sun had just barely begun to kiss the sky. She lay in bed for a moment, puzzling over the dream that she’d woken from. She’d expected to dream of the crypts after the day before, but she hadn’t expected the dream to be quite like that. She hadn’t dreamt of burning the bodies, she’d dreamt of the part before. The time she’d spent following after Arya and Tyrion as they debated the advantages of one section over the other. She’d gone deeper into the crypts than she ever had before, into areas so old that the swords that the statues held were almost rusted away. Again and again, her dream brought her back to a statue of a Targaryen that she’d seen briefly. It was a statue that made no sense in Winterfell.

The air in her room had a light chill to it, even with the fire going in her hearth. Extracting herself from the warmth of her covers brought a sigh to her lips. She gathered up her easiest dress to put on from her wardrobe and brought it over to the fire to quickly dress herself. She got halfway through before remembering to fasten her sheathed knife to her thigh. She smoothed the woolen skirt back into place over her petticoats, and she raised it to allow the heat from the fire to warm her feet before sliding them in her boots. It was something she would never allow herself to do if her handmaiden had been dressing her.

In halls, there were no signs that anyone else was awake until Sansa came closer to the kitchens, where the bakers were already finishing up the morning bread. The sounds of other people somehow ruined the stillness that Sansa felt inside, so she turned down another corridor, taking the longer way to the crypts. She knew it had to be now, before work was underway to block off her family’s section of the crypts from the rest of them.

There was still the faint taste of smoke in the air when Sansa arrived. She traced the steps she remembered taking the day before, trying to ignore the feeling of being alone. When she finally stood before the Targaryen statue, she was disappointed not to experience some great revelation, some great shift in how she felt. It was something that happened in the stories she’d read when she was younger. The heroine has a dream that leads her to the solution to all of her problems. What problems had Sansa expected the statue to solve? The grey face looked at her without sympathy, it’s features old and worn and unrecognizable. In its outstretched hand, which would normally be left empty to place a candle in, it held a stone dragon’s egg. Really that was the only reason Sansa was sure it was a Targaryen. She looked closer at the egg, lightly wondering why the scaling of the egg hadn’t worn down like the face of the statue had. She reached out her hand to touch it.

There was a gritty sound and the egg shifted.

Sansa’s brow furrowed. _Why carve the egg separately from the statue?_ She picked the egg up. It was lighter than she expected, but still solid. She turned it over in her hand, tracing the scales with the tip of her finger. Then she scraped at it with her fingernail. A thin strip of grey paint came away, revealing a metallic blue.

** Tyrion **

Tyrion had spent his morning racking his brain for any morsels of strategic brilliance he could squeeze out of it. The biggest problem to overcome, as he saw it, was the sheer size of the army of the dead. He thought of the stampedes he’d seen in the past, the sheer force of a mass of bodies washing over everything in its path like a tidal wave. There had to be a way to break up the army, a series of barricades perhaps. But barely any men could be spared to build them, so they’d have to be placed in the exact right places. He walked the grounds with Jaimie, trying to come to a solution. Tyrion was distinctly not thinking of how soft Sansa’s hair had been when he’d touched it the night before. Instead, he let himself bask in the comfort of bantering with his brother again. It was a small pleasure he hadn’t expected to enjoy again.

As they turned around to head back inside, a dragon streaked across the sky. Daenerys was back from her scouting mission. She was back early.

Tyrion rushed to her.

“They’re coming,” she said as she slid off of Drogon. “The wights about two days away.”

There would be no time to build the barricades then.

“Did you see how many there are?” Tyrion asked.

Daenerys looked grim.

“I didn’t get too close of a look before I turned around, but it looked like its as bad as we feared,” she said.

“Well…” for once Tyrion had nothing to say.

“Go and tell Grey Worm to drop the combat practice for the men and switch them all over to making sure Winterfell is ready for the battle,” Daenerys said, squaring her shoulders. “They’re about as well practiced as they’re going to get by now. Tomorrow I want them to be sure to get plenty of food and only do mild physical labor. They’ll need to save their strength.”

“Yes, my queen,” Tyrion said. “If all the men are switching to preparing Winterfell, might some be spared to build barricades at strategic position surrounding Winterfell?”

Daenerys gave an absentminded nod of her head.

“Yes, whatever you think is wise,” she said. “I’m going to go inform Queen Sansa so that we can make sure that all of the children and elderly are ready to be moved into the crypts. Come find me after you’ve spoken with Grey Worm.”

Tyrion stared at Drogon, surprised that he wasn’t feeling more terrified. The dead were coming, and he was…numb. This terrible thing that had been taking up so much of his mind lately was almost here, and it almost felt imaginary. Like at any moment, someone might pop up and go “Gotcha! Can’t believe you fell for that one!” It almost made him want to take the rest of the day off.

_Really, the army of the dead sounds like a problem for tomorrow me to deal with._ Tyrion chuckled and shook his head. He desperately wanted a glass of wine. Jaimie had already left to inform his own men, strong and silent. Tyrion followed his example.

When Tyrion went to search for Daenerys later, Winterfell was a bustling swarm of people. Kitchen workers were carrying sacks of food and barrels of water down to the crypts in case the battle went on for days, or even weeks. There was the loud clang of metal as the smiths attempted to churn out a last batch of weapons. Common people bustled around trying to figure out where they were meant to go during the battle, and then stayed around to do anything they could to help. Everyone was desperate for some kind of job to do. Something to take their minds off what was coming.

Tyrion pushed his way into the Great Hall and saw a flash of red hair over in a corner. Sansa was talking to a Lady who was in an advanced stage of pregnancy.

“I can’t go in the crypts, I just can’t,” the lady said.

“You can, Lady Greenweld, and you will have to,” Sansa said.

“What if I go into labor down there? I’m not ready”

“Well one of the good things about everyone going into the crypts is there will be plenty of midwives to help you if your child should choose to join us,” Sansa put her hand on the Lady’s shoulder. “We will get through this. We have to.”

Lady Greenweld bit her lip and put her hand on her belly.

“Here.” Sansa pulled something white out of her pocket. “I’ve embroidered this for you, so your child will have something beautiful to wear when they arrive.”

It was a tiny nightgown, lined with grey fleece, and embroidered with a pattern of snowflakes, stars, and trees. Lady Greenweld took the nightgown gently. She looked back up a Sansa with a determined look on her face, as if imaging her child wearing the dress had brought her back down to Earth.

“That was very reassuring of you,” Tyrion said after the Lady had left. “You’re taking this rather well.”

“Well, I’ve had a lot of time to get used to it,” Sansa said shortly. “I’ve asked your Queen if I could borrow your services.”

“What can I do for you, your Grace?” Tyrion replied.

“Since your men are to help with the preparations, I need you to advise me as to which of them are best suited to which jobs, and which men will be the most amenable to working with my own servants. I have a list of tasks here.” 

Sansa handed him the list and he glanced over it.

“Also,” Sansa continued, “the Lord Aryinde will be arriving soon and he wants every supply he brings with him catalogued. If you could help me by doing that as I show him to his quarters, I would be most grateful. I’d ask someone else to do it, but if you’re the one who does it he’ll be less likely to squabble about it.”

“He wants his supplies…catalogued?” Tyrion asked.

“Yes.”

“Couldn’t he have done that before he arrived?”

“The list isn’t for him, it’s for us. He wants there to be an official record of the amount of aid he provides. Therefore, one of us has to do the cataloguing.”

“Ah I see,” Tyrion said. “All this time I’ve heard how ‘the North remembers’ and thought it was because you all had extraordinarily good memories. Now I know you’re just a nation of extremely rugged bookkeepers.”

A brief smile crossed Sansa’s face.

“Shall we begin?” she asked.

***** *** *** *** *****

At the end of the day, a group of them were all sitting huddled around the fireplace of the Great Hall, clutching goblets of wine in their hands, and making small talk. The hour had grown late, and Tyrion knew he ought to go to bed. But there was a sense of comfortable comradery here. A focus on the joint effort they were all making to get through a horrible crisis. If he went to his chambers, he’d stop thinking about their joint effort, and instead start focusing on the horrible crisis. All day long, the feeling of numbness had slowly slipped away from him, and in its place was an aching, bone deep dread. But when he talked with the others, he could ignore it.

Jon and Daenerys were sitting off together in a corner a little way from the group, and Sansa was also sitting slightly removed. She had a new bit of sewing to work on, but she’d set it down for once, and was staring quietly into the fire. Tyrion thought that Brienne and Jaimie were flirting horribly, and by horribly he meant they were doing a terrible job at it. Jaimie had never really flirted with anyone besides Cersei, and Brienne had never trusted anyone who flirted with her.

“How about we play a new game?” Tyrion asked. “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.”

“That’s not your usual game,” Jaimie said.   
“You have to say what you most like about someone, and what you most hate, and then you have to guess what they’ll say about you,” Tyrion said. “You have to drink if you get it wrong. I’ll start. Jaimie. I like that you’re hilarious. I dislike that you’re a bit of a dick. And I’m going to guess that you like that I’m short, and dislike that I’m cleverer than you.”

There was a peel of laughter that was perhaps louder than was called for.

“No,” Jaimie said. “I like that you’re cleverer than me, and dislike that you’re arrogant about it. Brienne. I like that you’re insanely stubborn, and I hate that you’re insanely stubborn. And I guess that you like that I’m so handsome and you hate that I’m so handsome.”

“Wrong,” Brienne said. “I like that you’re the most honorable dishonorable man I know, and I dislike that you’re the biggest idiot I know.”

There was another laugh. And on the game went, with everyone finding clever ways to insult and compliment each other. It wasn't the best game to get drunk to, but that wasn't the point.

Eventually, they slowly admitted to themselves that the night was too late, and one by one people started going off to bed. Sansa and Tyrion were left alone in the room.

“Queen Sansa, you didn’t play the game. It’s not fair to listen and not play along,” Tyrion said.

“Is it not?” Sansa asked distantly.

“Here. I’ll go again. I have always had the highest appreciation of your survival instincts. You began to play the game before you even knew you were in it. And you, of course, have most appreciated my extraordinary cleverness, and hate that I made a joke about throwing up on you on our wedding night.”

“You may be clever, but you’re wrong,” Sansa replied. “I’ve most appreciated your thoughtfulness, Lord Tyrion.”

“Oh, come now,” Tyrion said. “That’s just another way to say cleverness.”

“No,” Sansa gave him a smile. “It isn’t. And I’ve most hated your bitterness.”

“My bitterness?”

Sansa took a sip of her wine.

“You never said what you hate about me, Tyrion.”

The silence stretched long and wide before them as Tyrion thought of something to say.

“I hate,” he said slowly, “that you left me after Joffrey’s murder. I understand why you had to do it. I know it was the right thing to do, and deep down I know that you staying would have been the last thing I wanted. But still.”

The two looked at contemplated each other, and the ways they’d changed since their marriage.

“I’m sorry, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa reached out and squeezed his hand. 

Tyrion squeezed her hand back and gulped down the last of his wine. He left the room silently, feeling that anything he said now would taint the moment.


End file.
